Had the Dickens Scared outa Me
by Relativity1953
Summary: Another holiday with the Winchesters...
1. Bah Humbug

I know this has been done before... but as I have been watching my favorite holiday movie "Scrooged" every day, I was inspired to write it. And, after reading HappyCabbage's wonderful take on Hamlet, I was inspired to post. Hope you enjoy! Happy Holidays!

* * *

**Had the Dickens Scared outa Me**

"So Sammy, what are you hoping Santa'll leave in _your_ stocking this year?"

After spending the last half an hour in silence, searching the old graveyard for Marissa Jakobson's insanely difficult to find tombstone, the sudden question made Sam pause. He looked ahead to his brother, a row or two in front and to the left of him in the cemetery, and found Dean looking intently at the worn stones in the beam of his flashlight. But, Sam was not the sort to imagine such things.

"Did you say something?"

"Yeah," and Dean looked over his shoulder and smirked, "I was wondering what little Sammy wanted for Christmas this year." Then, he turned back to the grave markers to search once more.

"First of all," Sam said with mild irritation, "I haven't been _little_ Sammy since I hit my first big growth spurt at fourteen – you know, the one you hoped would be my last." Sam grinned a slightly evil grin at the memory of his big brother no longer having any height advantage on him whatsoever. What a surprise it was for Dean to realize he was going to be the family runt.

"And second," he continued, "I thought you'd gotten all this crap out of your system already."

"All this cr-" Dean broke off, stopped looking at the stones and turned completely to face his not-so-little brother. "Dude, I thought 'pissy' was your theme last year. Aren't contestants for the 'Least Christmas Spirit' contest supposed to come up with new ideas each year?"

"And I thought that last year was some kind of fluke. I believe your excuse for wanting to celebrate for the first time in, like, ever, was the fact that it was your last Christmas. You remember that, right? The whole deal with you leaving in five months time." Sam turned around and began stalking in the opposite direction, mumbling, "Happy Birthday to me."

"Sam-"

"No, Dean, just save it," he said without looking back, more weariness than wrath in his voice. "Why don't we split up for a bit and cover more ground?" he said more than asked, walking across a dirt path to the next section of the cemetery without waiting for Dean to agree.

Though, he was pretty sure he heard his older brother sigh out a soft, "yeah, all right Sammy," accompanied by fading footsteps.

* * *

About twenty minutes after separating, Sam was startled by a familiar female voice behind him.

"Are you sure this is the best time of day for ghost busting?"

"Ruby," he said with a quick glance in her direction, making eye contact for a second, by way of greeting. He returned his gaze to the worn stones but continued with the conversation. He knew that he and Dean were safe, even at this late hour, from the ghost of the old school marm. Sam had discovered that she only haunted the area where her schoolhouse had been – now an apartment complex – on weekdays and her grave on Saturdays. As it was still early Sunday morning, they would be fine. He supposed, given Ruby's casual manner, she knew this as well.

"Where did you come from anyway?" he asked. "I mean, I realize that demons can pretty much float on the wind to wherever they want to go, but doesn't having that body limit your mobility? How did you get out here?"

"Easy, Mr. Twenty Questions," she said, folding her arms and raising her eyebrows. "A girl's got a right to keep some secrets, doesn't she?"

Sam merely rolled his eyes. As he didn't say anything and continued moving on down the row, Ruby walked along with him on the opposite sides of the graves. However, she kept her eyes on Sam.

"So... any special plans for the holidays? You and your pain in the ass brother going to take a break, drink some eggnog, stay up late to watch for reindeer?"

"Not you too," he said, finally stopping to look directly at her. The amusement on her face annoyed him. "I wouldn't have expected you to be all holly and jolly. I've never heard of a real witch celebrating the birth of Christ."

"Kid, you know as well as I do that your Jesus was born closer to your own birth date than December 25th." She shook her head and the two kept walking. "Now, the winter solstice – that's a party I could get into."

"And how exactly would you celebrate this Lesser Sabbat?" he asked with a hint of a laugh.

"Sam," Ruby stopped dead in her tracks and said, mirth gone completely from her voice, "I think your brother just found the right grave."

Sam's 'So?' was drown out by the sound of six feet of flesh and bone hitting solid wood. And from the crack and thump of said body then hitting ground, it seemed as if the tree had won.

"Dean!" Sam yelled as he and Ruby took off toward the echoes of Dean being thrown around like a rag doll. Ruby may have had the demon-amped-up strength advantage, but the shorter legs of her host body allowed for Sam to easily make it to the grave before her.

Looking around, he saw a couple of headstones at strange angles, a tree with bark scattered around its base, some bushes that looked as if they had been run over by a big rig, and clumps of grass and dirt thrown this way and that. What he didn't see was his brother or the ghost.

"Dean?" Sam's voice, caught somewhere between calling out and whispering, echoed in the empty clearing. Suddenly, Sam realized just how quiet his surroundings were. No birds or bugs or other critters scurrying around. No footfalls from Ruby catching up to help him with Dean or the ghost. And no Dean and no ghost.

"Dean!" he called out again, walking in a circle two, three times, until finally seeing a hint of his brother's boot behind a row of hedges. Making his way quickly to his brother, he crouched down to try and see the extent of the damage.

A groan startled Sam as he was reaching to search for his brother's pulse. He fell, landing hard on his backside, and watched as Dean began the painful process of regaining his breath and consciousness.

"Easy Dean. I've got you. I'm right here," Sam said softly, along with other such nonsense meant to be supportive and caring, while reaching out to help in whatever way he could.

"Sammy?" Dean mumbled and opened his eyes, trying to focus.

"Yeah, right here. What happened, Dean? Where is she?"

"Sam!" One moment his brother was trying to sit himself up and shake off the vertigo, and the next Dean was shouting his name a split second before Sam found himself yanked away and thrown through the air. The last thing Sam saw was Dean's wide, frightened – for his little brother, never himself – eyes falling further and further away, then the bright lights that accompany the fierce pains of hitting an immovable object, then blessed nothingness.

* * *

"Sam... SAM... Sammy?" the breathless voice of his older brother oozed into his head. Unfortunately, it felt like his brains were oozing out of his head at the same pace.

"Come on, Sammy. You gotta wake up man," and boy did Dean sound young when he was worried about his little brother.

"'m'wake," Sam mumbled and slurred. He heard Dean let out a huge huffed breath and stand up – _mostly likely turning away to compose his big, bad self_, Sam thought. The idea would have brought a smile to his face, if his face hadn't hurt so much.

"'m'OK," he muttered, trying to reassure his older brother as he slowly moved to sit up against the hard surface he had been thrown against. The rough, scratchiness against his back told him it was probably a tree – probably the same tree Dean had been thrown against already.

Sam blinked his eyes open, attempting to clear the scrambled, double vision he was currently suffering. He slowly moved his head to look around for Dean, but stopped when he saw another figure. Standing with his back to Sam was a young boy with dark hair and baggy clothing.

Sam quickly sat up a little more and searched his memory for the stories he had read about Marissa Jakobson. The woman had been cruel and punishing in life and even worse in death, to the point of seriously harming many of the children in the apartment building now standing where her old schoolhouse had been. There had been two deaths: one was an old man who saw the spirit and had a fatal heart attack, the other was... was a girl, wasn't it? Sam was sure he had read that the ghost killed a teenage girl who had been dared to spend the night at her grave – stupid kids and their stupid dares.

Sam's hand was inching towards his brother's duffel bag that sat a foot away from him when the ghost boy turned around to face him. Sam nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight.

"Dean?"


	2. Christmases Past

"Hey Sammy," said the somewhat raspy voice of his older brother's twelve-year-old self. "You OK?"

All Sam could do was stare as the illusion came closer to him. The boy stopped, looking down at him and suddenly Sam realized that he was looking up into the face of a preteen Dean.

"What happened?" was the first thing Sam could force out of his mouth. "Why are we young again? Dean, you're supposed to be-"

"Settle down, Sammy," young Dean put his small hand on Sam's shoulder and said calmly, sounding so much older than he should – then again, Dean always seemed older than he truly was. At least to Sam. "Don't worry. Nothing's happened. And, _we_ aren't young again."

This he said looking down at Sam, as if to indicate Sam should do the same. When he did, Sam was shocked all over again. He was the same size, the same height, the same age as he was before he hit the tree. So... why then...

"Come on," Dean said before Sam could ask any more questions. He reached out his hand to help Sam up. On instinct, Sam grabbed onto it, finding that Dean's hand was about the third of the size of Sam's.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, completely thrown that this little person pulled him up to stand without any trouble. And now, he stood next to his big brother – though it would take two of him to equal Sam's height.

"The motel," Dean told him as if it was obvious. "It's getting a little cold out here Sammy. I think it's starting to snow," the boy said looking up to the sky. Sam followed his lead – it was beginning to snow – and then returned his eyes to his _little_ brother and found that they were no longer in the cemetery at 1:00 am but in a park around dusk.

"Besides," the kid said, still holding Sam's hand, pulling him along, "Dad'll get mad if we aren't home by the time the street lights come on."

Sam allowed himself to be nearly dragged to a run-down building with peeling olive paint on the walls and chipped yellow trim. Dean took a key from his pocket, reached out and unlocked the door, and practically pushed Sam inside.

"There you two are."

"Dad?" Sam whispered. He took in the sight of his father – thick, dark hair without a grey strand to be seen, clean-shaven face accentuating his bright smile, looking Sam right in the... knees.

From behind him – _through him_ – ran a very little Sammy. Sam could only guess that the vision was of a four-year-old self. He watched as mini-Sammy ran to his daddy, who in turn went down on one knee to scoop up the little boy and give him a bear hug the likes of which adult-Sam could not even remember.

"Go in and wash up for dinner, Sammy," young John said, placing the little boy back on the floor. As the door of the bathroom closed, John turned back to look at eight-year-old Dean. The smile that remained on his face looked strained and hard-pressed to stay there. "I thought I told you to be home by dinnertime."

"Sorry, Dad," the boy said, standing in front of adult Sam and twelve-year-old Dean. "The street lights aren't on yet-"

"That's because they're busted, Dean," John told him, smile no longer in place, though the look he was giving Dean was far from the angry-Dad faces Sam could remember from his teenage years. "How many times do I have to tell you to get your brother home before dark? It's not safe for a little boy out there. Do you _want_ something to happen-"

But anything else he was going to say was cut off by little Sammy's return.

Sam turned to twelve-year-old Dean. He was getting a little dizzy, what with being the only one that was the correct age.

"What's going on?" he asked just as the motel room began to fill with smoke. The loud beeping of the smoke alarm began screaming in the room and the fire sprinklers sputtered out inconsistent spurts of water while John cursed and ran to the kitchenette's little oven with a fire extinguisher. Little Dean grabbed little Sammy's arm – the kid's hands were covering his ears against the shrill wail – and pulled him to the door of the motel room, and young Dean and adult Sam followed them out.

Only, it wasn't outside. They walked out of one motel room straight into another. This room was colder than the last and he watched a now ten-year-old Dean taking the comforter off of his own bed to tuck it around a sleeping, six-year-old Sammy. The solemn child then walked over to a ragged chair, sat down, and pulled a shot gun into his lap. A sentry protecting a prince.

Behind adult Sam and his guide, the motel door opened to a snow-covered John Winchester carrying a duffel bag and a brown paper sack. The man dropped both bags in front of his older son without a word and then made his way to the bed where his younger son was sleeping. Quiet as he could, John whispered what sounded to adult Sam like, "sweet dreams, Sammy," tucked the blankets closer around him, and then walked into the bathroom.

As the shower turned on, ten-year-old Dean locked and re-salted the door. He carefully took out the damaged packages from the paper sack. Adult Sam watched with a smile as he saw the child cut off the torn and ripped cardboard backing and wrap the figures in bits of the brown paper sack.

"I remember that," Sam said softly to the slightly older Dean standing next to him. "I remember telling Dean that the only thing I wanted for Christmas was G.I. Joe. I got four of them: Hawk, Snake-Eyes, Cobra Commander, and Storm Shadow. I can't believe I still remember their names," he said with a chuckle.

"I remember how excited you were," said the twelve-year-old, sounding much like his present-day brother – tired and a little sad.

"Yeah," Sam said, remembering back. "Until I got to school anyway. First day after Christmas break I brought my _new_ toys to show Joey and Andy. Joey looked at Hawk and told me that he was only a colonel. The Hawk he had gotten was newer, a brigadier general, complete with one star. And Andy showed me that his Snake-Eyes came with Timber, the character's pet wolf.

"I was so angry and embarrassed when you came to pick me up from school. And I asked you..." Sam trailed off, ashamed by his actions from over twenty years ago.

"Why Santa brought your friends good toys," Dean continued for him, "and left you with the crappy, old ones."

"And I remember," pride now shining through in Sam's voice, "that you marched right over to Joey and Andy and told them that my toys were _not_ crappy and were _most definitely not_ old. They were 'vintage', and vintage is far cooler than those _new_ things they had gotten."

Adult Sam and his guide shared a small laugh at the memory while the younger Dean had finished wrapping the gifts and was now decorating the paper with crayon drawings of snow and trees and wreaths to make it look more Christmas-y.

"Of course," Sam went on, "none of us new what 'vintage' meant. It was just a big word used by a bigger kid than us, which made it awesome by definition." He thought it should have felt strange talking to this younger version of his brother, who seemed himself to get lost in which age he truly was, but it was quite simple and comfortable.

They left the motel room in silence. After the G.I. Joe Christmas, Sam was treated to a more holiday scenes. Next was the year that Dad missed Christmas and Sam opened his gifts of a Barbie Doll and a baton – girl gifts that Dean had gotten for him without realizing the gender mistake he had made. Year after year, Sam watched aging versions of himself open what he thought of at the time as sub-par gifts. Only now, as an adult, he could see how Dean had tried. Even if their father hadn't.

It was only after watching an eighteen-year-old Sam pull cash from a sock... When Sam was a high school senior, Dad was once again away during the holiday season. Dean was home, laid-up with badly bruised ribs, his left arm fractured in two places, and both knees in braces that prevented him from getting anywhere fast – not to mention he wasn't supposed to drive. However, it seemed he found a way to get to a local bar one day while Sam was at school and got in on a high stakes game of poker.

"At least it wasn't pool," Dean had said with a smile. But Sam didn't find that much of a conciliation and tried to refuse the gift that Dean had wrapped in an old sock – one of Sam's white gym socks – that had been turned deep pink in the laundry. What Dean didn't know at the time was that Sam's guilty conscience at the thought of wanting to leave their life, go to college – somewhere like Columbia or Yale or hopefully Stanford – was weighing him down.

At least Sam had assumed Dean didn't know. Looking at a twenty-two year old Dean watching his younger brother struggle with his thoughts and feelings about the monetary gift, adult-Sam saw a myriad of emotions play on his older brother's face. It made him wonder how much Dean _did_ know – definitely not the specifics, as Sam himself hadn't known such things at the time, but Dean seemed to grasp the fact that Sam wanted college, normal, _more_.

Sam turned to young-Dean, hoping that this version of his brother would be more forthcoming with his inner thoughts, but the boy was not there. Sam turned a circle and looked around the room. The kid was gone.

"Great," he said out loud, knowing that the Winchester brothers from Christmas 2001 wouldn't hear him. "Now how am I supposed to get out of here?"

At that moment, someone knocked at the apartment door. At first, Sam thought nothing of it, believing that it must have happened in 2001. Then, he noticed that, when the outsider knocked again – even louder – that the phantom brothers did not appear to hear it.

"Oh, what the hell..." he said to himself – he had nothing to lose by trying to open the door.

"Finally!" the beautiful blonde woman, the one he at one time thought he would spend the rest of his life with, said with her big, beautiful smile.

"Jess?" he nearly cried as she reached in and grabbed his hand, then pulled him through the door. Like the first time with the motel, Sam left one apartment for another – this time, in a cheap but decent building. Unlike any of the Christmases he visited with his brother, this one held a room full of blinking lights and garland and even a decorated tree.

"Oh my God," Jess said in the way that had always caused Sam to tease her about being a 'valley girl'. "How gaudy is this?" She looked at him and smiled, her eyes bright and laughing the way they always got when she was happy.

"I think it's beautiful," Sam told her, staring at her, and they both knew he was talking about more than just the overly-decorated apartment.

"Oh Sam," she said with sympathy. "I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to be the one to show you this last Christmas. I knew it would be hard. But, let's face it, Dean couldn't show you this. He wasn't here. You (_she nodded towards 2004 Sam_) know as well as you (_she nodded to him_) do that Dean wasn't a part of this Christmas."

"I," Sam said absently.

"Huh?"

"I... You said 'you know as well as _you_ do.' It's 'you know as well as _I _do.'"

"No," she told him, shaking her head. "_I_ didn't know anything about Dean until... well... almost the end. You know?"

Sam watched himself and Jess throwing loose tinsel on the tree, then at each other, ending in a shiny shimmering battle where they ending up falling on the sofa laughing and kissing. Sam – the one that was only a visitor to this happy, seemingly life-time-ago dream – couldn't help it when he felt the tears begin sliding from his eyes.


	3. Christmas Presents

Sorry about the slight delay. I really wanted to post this yesterday but the darn thing was giving me trouble. For those worried about Sam having to see Jess again, don't worry - things take a turn for the crazy and, well, honestly, I don't think I've ever written crack of this magnitude. I've read and enjoyed enough cracky fics, but this is the first time any such thing has spewed forth from me. I hope it works for you...

* * *

Sam had only blinked his eyes to clear them of tears, and when he opened them again, he was back in the cemetery sitting against the tree. He took a moment to see if anything strange – yes, that whole thing was strange even by Winchester standards – would happen. When all remained calm around him, he carefully stood himself up and brushed the dirt and twigs from his clothing. Then he remembered-

"Dean!" He couldn't believe that the ghost of Marissa Jakobson would have attacked and then left before making sure her grave was safe from intruders. That was unusual spirit behavior, something they had never seen nor heard of before. Being knocked unconscious might be enough to fool a human but ghosts seemed to always know whether their prey was dead or not. Maybe being dead themselves gave them an couple extra senses or something. Or maybe they could just sense their own kind.

Still, the old teacher's absence left Sam with only two plausible explanations. One, Dean had taken care of her while Sam was still KO'd and sprawled under that tree. But, as he was already looking around for his brother, Sam could find no evidence – a freshly dug grave, fire peeking up out of said grave, _Dean_ – that the salt and burn had taken place.

The second explanation seemed much more likely and yet left Sam full of apprehension. Dean was off somewhere contending with the spirit on his own, defending his little brother. The silence – the lack of rifle shots – did nothing to ease Sam's troubled mind.

Sam took a couple of unsteady steps forward, gaining clarity with each one. He saw his own rifle on the ground in front of a tall row of hedges... the same hedges he now remembered seeing Dean lying behind. Looking closer at the shrubbery, Sam realized it moved. There was no wind, no breeze to account for the movement and Sam squinted to see through the branches in the darkness.

He picked up his rifle without taking his eyes of the hedges. Then there was another movement and he could make out a large shape – obviously not some small animal taking cover from the cold. And, Sam thought, why would a ghost _hide_ behind bushes?

"Dean?" he quietly called out, hoping he was right but not willing to let his guard down.

"Um... well, er, no," an unfamiliar and decidedly masculine voice said. "But, I'm unarmed and, um... would you just... would you mind putting that gun down there, kiddo?"

"Think I'm going to hang onto it if it's all the same to you."

"Well, dang," the slightly twangy voice said, "I was afraid you were gonna say that. I guess... well... if it makes you feel better and all, I guess you oughta keep a'hold of it. Just... if you would, just don't do anything rash or anything. Got your word?"

Sam didn't know what to say. This unknown person sounded a little worried – like he thought Sam would shoot. That was reason enough for Sam to take better aim and pay attention.

"Come on there, kiddo. I'm guessing you're getting a bit chilly. Me? Well, I'm fine in this weather, but I'm betting I can last a might longer'an you. Just promise to hear me out and we can have ourselves a nice little chat."

"Yeah, whatever, fine," Sam said hesitantly. The wind had started to pick up and the sun was still a long way from coming out to help warm things up. Sam shivered now that the thought had been placed in his head.

"OK, now," the voice said, "I'm'a coming out now."

Sam had been told more than once that when he exited a small car or stood up from a low table, it looked as if he had _unfolded_ himself to do so. He had never understood the meaning of that until just now, for crouched behind the shrubs that stood not five feet high and three feet wide, a large creature seemed to unfold itself until it was twice the height of the hedge and nearly as wide.

Sam just stared.

He wasn't frozen in fear or astonishment. He simply could not comprehend what he was seeing. Best guess, the creature looked like the abominable snowman from the old Bugs Bunny show come to life. Only, he spoke more like every cheesy cowboy Sam had ever seen on television.

"Well, howdy there Sammy," the grey-white creature said from somewhere under the – fur? hair? - covering on its long face. Sam could just make out blue-black marble eyes hiding amongst the fur of the creature's face, and the two stood staring at one another for a long few minutes.

Somewhere in the back of Sam's scrambled brain, the thought, _that'll teach me to eat mac-n-cheese pizza with jalapeños and prosciutto – just because Dean can – and then get struck in the head by a tree_, made itself known. Apparently, Dean's choice of 'food' did not work well in combination with head injuries. Except for with Dean. Or, maybe that's what was wrong with his older brother.

"Hey kiddo," the creature broke the silence and shifted it's weight from one foot to the other, "I'm appreciative for the whole not shooting me thing, but the blank stare is kinda creeping me out."

Sam pulled himself together and said the only intelligent thing he could think of. "Why do you keep calling me _kiddo_?"

"Oh," somewhere within all of the long hair, Sam was sure he saw a friendly smile start to form, "well, funny thing that. Guess a while back, some fellas got in a bit of a pickle for using the wrong sort of niceties. Seems a lot of human men don't appreciate being called 'son' by strangers. Well, at least not the ones we visit.

"But, hey, if'n you don't care for _kiddo_, I could hug ya and pet ya and call ya George."

Sam's eyes widened. He was pretty sure he hadn't voiced the thought about the Looney Tunes abominable snowman.

"Hey," the creature laughed, "I'm just messing with ya. I'll just stick with 'Sam' then. Incidentally, you can call me Schnee."

"Riiiiight."

* * *

"So, Sam my man," Schnee said, "you're a smart guy. I'm guessing you've figured out what's going on here. Am I right?"

"Hmmm," Sam made a noncommittal noise as he walked with the giant. There was something about the tangled mess of fur on Schnee's body that not only produced warmth, but also gave him a comfortable, content feeling.

"Well said," Schnee smirked. "Let's just say that I'm here to give you a little _behind the scenes_ look at what's been going on around you."

Before Sam could ask what that meant, he felt heat all around him and noticed in the lamplight that they were in a motel room. His current motel room, in fact.

"Hey," he heard his big brother's voice and turned to see Dean packing his duffel on one of the beds.

"Dean," he said with relief as he neared his brother, "I am so glad to see you. Are you OK?"

"I'm good."

"How did you-"

"Well, I'm not sure," Dean said with uncertainty.

"You don't know how you got here?" Sam asked, worried. "Do you know if you took care of-"

"No, it's not that we don't want to come, Bobby," Dean said, turning around, and Sam could now see he was talking on his cell phone. He stood by silently, listening to Dean's side of the conversation.

"It's just... well... we've got some leads... you know?" Dean tried to make his voice sound reasonable, professional even, but Sam saw the look on his face. It was the same look he used to get when he was trying to explain something to Sam – some order of Dad's – that he didn't necessarily like or believe in himself, but was trying to convince his little brother that it was all for the best. Sam had always hated that look.

"What can I say? It's one of our busy seasons," this he said with a little semi-self-depreciating laugh.

"If we don't help these people, who will?" this was said with more force. Dean actually believed this line of thinking. Sam hadn't always liked that look either. It was the look that said, everyone else – strangers even – comes before me. "We take time off and there are going to be a lot more people who don't _get_ to spend any time enjoying the holiday-"

"We will. I'm sure we will..."

From outside of the motel room, Sam heard his own voice call out, "Dean! You coming or not?!" Did he really sound like that? Did he always sound like such a patronizing ass?

"Look, Bobby, I gotta go. If we can swing it, we'll stop by, OK?" Dean said as he zipped his duffel. The look on his older brother's face told Sam that Dean completely believed that his little brother would leave without him if he didn't hurry up.

"Bye," he mumbled into the phone. Then, he closed the cell and shoved it in his pocket, picked up the duffel, and walked between Sam and Schnee and out of the motel room. The melancholy coming off of him so strong, it nearly knocked Sam backwards.

"Don't you just love listening in on other people's phone calls?" Schnee asked. Sam couldn't tell if he was actually thrilled by the idea or just looking to get some kind of reaction out of the human. "Let's go," he told Sam and walked out of the motel door.

But once again, Sam found himself walking from one room to another. Only this time, instead of another motel, they ended up in a very familiar living room.

"Hey yourself Dean. How ya doin boy?" Bobby spoke into the phone with a smile on his face. After a short pause, he asked, "Did you boys think any more about stopping by for Christmas this year?" then the smile on his face fell.

"Not sure? You know, if you don't want to come-" he tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "Well..."

"So Sam's still all about work, work, work, huh?" Bobby took off his ever-present baseball cap, ran his free hand over his hair, and then replaced the cap. There was a sadness in his eyes – the same look Sam had seen when the man had the feeling that he was losing one or the other (or both) of the boys.

"But even you boys need to take a break once in a while." It was said with empathy, sympathy, despondency.

"And what about you? Are you getting to enjoy the holiday?

"Yeah kid. OK." Bobby hung up the phone slowly, as if hoping the connection would return and not wanting to miss it. When the telephone finally hit the cradle, he looked over at his rottweiler pup.

"Well Bowdern, I think it may be just the two of us... again."

* * *

"OK, yeah, I get it," Sam said in a huff – literally, his breath fogged up as he was once again outside in the cold cemetery. "Bah humbug. I'm Scrooge, the killer of Christmas cheer."

"Killer, yes," a sinister sounding voice hissed, "of Christmas, no."

Sam spun around and saw, not Schnee, but a tall, thin, cloaked figure. It looked a lot like that Shtriga from Fitchburg. But instead of seeing wrinkled, grey skin underneath the hood – like the Emperor from Star Wars – all was dark. The face was in shadows and Sam could only make out the glow of yellow eyes.

"Oh, Sammy," he said with ominous cheer, "it's so much worse than that."


	4. Blue Christmas

Sam took a moment before speaking. He had to gather up a little courage. That voice... that voice – whether it used the mask of a hospital janitor or his father, or just taunted him in his dreams – that voice was always the same and it sent chills down Sam's spine. But, if there was one thing he had learned as Dean Winchester's kid brother, it was to use you fear and throw it right back at'em.

"Yeah, fine," he said with a strong but disinterested voice, "I know how this goes. You show me a terrible world and then my name on a headstone and I plead for another chance. I've read Dickens, you know? Oh, and I'm pretty sure you're supposed to stay silent – it adds something to your stalker creepy vibe."

This time, the cloaked figure said nothing. But, through the blackness under his hood, Sam thought he saw white teeth grinning at him. And, yeah, silent _was_ creepier.

"Look," he tried for the same strength of voice and failed as it cracked, "I know what you're trying to do. Azazel is dead. And not dead, like gone back to Hell dead. He's dead dead, shot in the head by my brother. So, yellow eyes aren't going to scare me."

At that, the figure's smile grew even wider. His right hand reached down to the material at his knee and with a flourish he pulled the cloak off like a magician finishing a trick. But, what was hidden under the cloak was not Azazel. The figure beneath was half the size of the tall, hooded demon from seconds before. This was a child, a little girl with a frilly pink dress and ribbons in her pigtails of golden ringlets. She was wearing lacy white gloves and white tights with shiny black patten leather Mary Jane's. She focused her bright blue eyes at Sam.

"Well," she said with innocent delight, "that was a bit melodramatic, don't you think? I happen to know that big brother Dean got Azazel in the heart – or where his heart should have been." She giggled at her own joke.

"And," she continued, walking around to circle Sam, "you silly billy goat, you and I both know you never read Dickens." She tsk-ed a few times and looked up to face him. "You saw a low budget performance of _Oliver! _in fourth grade and watched _A Muppet Christmas Carol_ on television back in your old apartment with Jess. That's not the same thing, you know? You shouldn't be telling fibs, my little boy blue."

Sam was taken a bit aback. Part of him was actually frightened of this demon in little girl clothing. She had been gunning for him for over a year now, after all. And, she was the one who took Dean away from him for four painful months. However, she also didn't seem to have any power over him. But, any relief he may have felt with that discovery seeped out of him as Dean's lifeblood flowed from his body.

"Uh oh," Lilith said, "seems the cat's got your tongue. Well Sammy, since you know _everything_, where should we go first? Do you want to see the reopened Roadhouse where everybody is celebrating and full of good cheer... without you? Or, what about checking up on some friends? People you've helped over the years?"

Sam didn't care for the malicious glee painted all over her angelic face.

"Let's see... your friends – Becky and Zach Warren? Oh wait, you can't see them – they're gone."

"What?" Sam found his voice. "What do you mean _gone_? I got an e-mail from Zach last month. And, I saw that Becky is getting married on the 27th."

"Oh, you silly rabbit, I thought you said you knew what was going on," she taunted. "We're not here to see Christmas 2008. That's the present. I was gonna show you Christmas 2009."

"But..."

"Yes, Zach will be dead way before Christmas. And so will Becky and her husband Matt. Oh, and so will their twins. But don't worry too much about them. They won't feel a thing. At least, I don't think they will. What do all of the scientists say about babies in the womb? Do they feel things or not?"

"Twins? Becky is going to have twins?"

"No Sammy, didn't you listen?" she said slowly, as if he were simple. "I'll have killed them all by September."

"You... why?"

"Well, to get to you, of course. It's quite a game of hide and seek we play. I'm afraid I have to pull a couple of tricks to get you to show yourself."

"A couple of..."

"Are you feeling OK Sammy," she asked with so much concern on her little face it made Sam's head spin. "You look a little pale. Maybe you should sit down."

"I don't want to sit down!" Sam yelled and the little girl actually seemed to jump in surprise.

"OK then," she said with a smile. "How about we take that trip? Don't worry. We won't have to go far. In fact, all the people you will want to see are right here." Again with the smile – as if she had really done something good – and a wave of her arm to the grounds around them.

And Sam remembered – they were standing in a cemetery. He didn't want to look around, but he had to.

In the first row he walked down, he saw a large family stone with Haley, Thomas, and Benjamin Collins, along with two other names that Sam assumed were their parents. He saw Andrea and Lucas Barr, Lisa and Ben Braeden, Cassie Robinson. Lori Sorenson, Amanda Walker, and Mara Daniels. There was Larry, Joanie, and Matt Pike. When he came to Layla Rourke, he stopped and saw the date on the stone. November 2009.

"Layla?"

"Yep," Lilith gave him something between a smile and a frown. "She said that her brain tumor had got all fixed. Said it was a miracle or something. So, I fixed it back."

Sam felt sick to his stomach. Everywhere he turned, there were names he recognized: Pamela Barnes, Roy Le Grange, Joe White Tree, Craig Thurston, Kathleen Hudak, Diana Ballard, Donna and Lily Shoemaker, Gertrude Case. She might have had wandering hands, but Gert didn't deserve that. None of them did.

Sam tried to turn away, but he saw even more names. Kenneth Spruce, Edward Zeddmore, Harry and Margaret Spangler.

"Now they were fun," Lilith told him. "They were in Vegas – which has all these pretty lights everywhere you look... anyway. Harry and Maggie were getting married in a little chapel with Kenny and Ed as witnesses. They were all so much fun to play with. And they were all in costume."

"They were dressed up," Sam said sullenly.

"No, they were in costumes," Lilith said, nodding her head, ringlets bouncing around her head. "Kenny was Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ed was Luke Skywalker, Harry was Han Solo – which was kinda funny – and Maggie wore a pretty white dress and her hair up in buns at the side of her head that looked like two danishes and everybody called her princess 'cause she was Princess Leia."

Sam would have laughed at the idea, but he couldn't find humor in anything at the moment. Then, he saw another family stone: Harvelle.

"Harvelle? I thought you said that the Roadhouse reopened."

"Yeah, I was after Ellen for months. Got really close a couple times, too," the little girl said, like an old fisherman telling his great fish story. "But I only ever got an eyeball and a finger or two to show for it.

"Bobby tried to keep her safe and away, but I guess she got tired of hiding. All of a sudden, she was easy to see. It was a little disappointing in the end. And after she was gone, her baby girl opened up the new Roadhouse as a kind of memorial." The little girl shook her head sadly. "Little Jo Jo was _not_ good at hide and seek."

"And Bobby?" Sam asked, not seeing his name on a stone.

"Oh, he's still around," she said as if it was of little consequence. "For now."

"Missouri!" Sam couldn't believe that Missouri Mosely was gone.

"Oh, I can't take the credit for that one," Lilith said mysteriously, turning around and skipping along another row.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked, following her. The innocent looking child seemed so out of place in this very dark and rundown area of the cemetery. All of the stones looked much older than the ones he had been looking at. With the exception of one. There was one small, newer looking stone on a freshly filled in grave where Lilith was standing.

"That means, silly goose, that there are two people here – two people that you have come to visit – that I am not responsible for."

So this is it, Sam thought. Now we come to the big finale. He may not have read Dickens, but he could remember Michael Caine crouching down to brush the snow off the headstone to reveal 'Ebenezer Scrooge' underneath. Whatever Lilith was playing at, Sam could take it.

Or, maybe not.

When all of the snow had been swept away, Sam remained crouched down. He didn't understand. He knew the story... everyone knew the story. So, why then, did the grave read:

Dean Campbell Winchester

May 2, 2009

"I don't understand," he murmured.

"I know," Lilith said, "it's kinda cheating – what with you killing him in May."

"I what?!"

"Yeah, Dean and Bobby and Missouri, they were all worried about you using your big brain to exorcise demons. But, because you always know best, you kept turning the arguments around on them and making them the bad guys. Bobby started getting all scared of you and spending more time hiding out, only talking to Dean. Missouri kept saying she was ashamed of you.

"Dean was the only one that stuck by you. He tried to keep you from getting angrier and angrier. But then, you and Missouri got in a big fight... when Dean found out that you killed her and hid it for more than a month-"

"What?" Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I would never hurt Missouri."

"Well, I guess she kinda pushed you into it," Lilith said, as if consoling a small child. "I mean, she kept trying to read your mind and stuff. Kept telling you that your soul was getting darker and darker... until even the smallest sliver was gone.

"When Dean found out... I guess that was the last straw. He finally realized that he couldn't save you or didn't save you or something. He tried to talk to you one more time before – you know. Such a stupid-hero thing to do, really. I mean, doesn't he watch movies? Doesn't he know not to give away his plan? His own fault that you got the better of him, if you ask me."

"No. No, I couldn't... I wouldn't... No, no, no," Sam collapsed, sitting on the snowy ground.

"Well," Lilith said matter-of-factly and putting her little hand on his shoulder, "you will. I was a little worried at first. Thought all your dark demon powers had finally progressed. But it all turned out OK in the end."

"What do you mean?"

"You and me, silly. A strange partnership to be sure, but I'm sure we can make it work."


	5. The End

"No!" Sam shouted, quickly crab-walking away from the adorable, evil little girl in front of him. "No! I would never hurt him. I certainly wouldn't _kill_ him." Even the word tasted foul in his mouth.

"Wouldn't hurt him?" the child laughed. She began walking towards him, looking much more threatening than such a small child should. "How many times have you left him _Sammy_? How many times have you _shot_ him?" With each accusation, she got closer and closer until Sam had backed himself against a tree and could not get away any further.

"What about all those times in high school that you pretended not to know him? You think he doesn't know about that? What about when you all but forgot him while in college?"

"I didn't!" Sam denied. "I would never... I could never forget..." He was shaking his head and had put his arms up in front of his face as if to block the charges against him.

"How many times did you forget his birthday? How many times did he forget _yours_? Never?"

"I was a child," he cried out. She was standing right in front of him now. He could feel it, though he refused to look up at her, refused to look at anything having closed his eyes with such force that they felt they would have to be pried open. "I was just a little kid when I forgot-"

"So was he! He was a child but Dean always remembered you. He was always there for you. Protected you. Loved you. And you let him die! He sacrificed his life for you and you just let him go!"

"No! I tried to stop it," Sam sobbed. "I tried to find a way out for him. I searched for a year and couldn't find anything. And then I tried to help him hide. Tried to keep him safe. But you found him... I died when he was dragged off... I died, too."

_Only I had to stay here and pretend that I was still alive, if only on the outside._

"And I tried to find a way to bring him back after he was gone. I couldn't burn his body the way we did with Dad because I just kept hoping... kept wishing..."

And then he couldn't say any more. Sam was wiped out. Tears flowed from his eyes until there were no more tears left. He sat curled in on himself underneath that tree, sniffing through his runny nose, breathing jaggedly through his mouth. Every so often, his rounded back jerked with his hitching breath, until the spasms were fewer and further between.

Sam just sat in silence, trying to will his brain to just shut down. Just for a moment.

* * *

"Sam... Sammy?" the breathless voice of his older brother seeped into his head. Unfortunately, because of his emotional explosion, it felt like his brains were oozing out of his head at the same pace.

"Come on, Sammy. You gotta wake up man."

"'m'wake," Sam mumbled and slurred. He heard Dean let out a huge huffed breath and stand up – _mostly likely turning away to compose his big, bad self_, Sam thought. The idea would have brought a smile to his face, if his face hadn't hurt so much.

"'m'OK," he muttered, trying to reassure his older brother as he slowly moved to sit up against the tree at his back. Then he froze. This was all too familiar.

"You sure you're OK there, Sammy?" Dean huffed out another breath. No it wasn't a huff... exactly.

Sam's eyes shot open, half expecting, half afraid of finding a twelve-year-old version of his brother in front of him. He really could not go through that whole ordeal again.

But, Dean – the Dean crouched down in front of him – was _his_ Dean. His older brother... actually _older_ brother.

"Sam?" Dean's smile faded into concern and Sam realized that the 'huff' he heard was more of a laugh than a sigh. However, his brother was now looking at him with worry.

"Sammy? I know you're tired, man, but talk to me. You're kinda freaking me out here kid," Dean told him with an anxious smile.

"Tired?" was all Sam could answer.

"Well, yeah," Dean said, dropping his dirt-crusted shovel, sitting down on the ground in front of Sam, and rolling his neck and shoulders. "I mean, I know you haven't been sleeping that great..."

That was true. Sam hadn't been sleeping well at all. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dean being ripped apart by invisible hell hounds. The nightmares had been easing, but then when Dean reappeared, alive and whole, they came back with a vengeance. Sam wasn't sure why.

"You are OK, right?" Dean asked him.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," Sam gave, internally shuddering at having used the standard Winchester response. When Dean just looked at him, eyebrow slightly raised, he broke down. "I've been having nightmares."

"Nightmares?" Dean asked, sitting forward. "Like, vision-nightmares? Like you're getting your old psychic powers back?"

"No, not like that," Sam explained. "Just plain old, craptastic, horrible recurring-nightmares. Like I had after Jess..."

"You're dreaming of Jess again?" Dean asked softly.

"No. Not of Jess," Sam said pointedly, looking directly into his brother's eyes, willing Dean to just get it. Willing Dean to understand how painful it was to just watch someone you love dying in front of your eyes and not being able to do a thing about it. Whether that someone was a lover or the brother who always took care of you.

"Ah," Dean said, and for a moment Sam thought that was all he was going to say. "It's not easy to watch your brother die and not be able to save him. It's not easy to be so close and yet too far away, and have to hold him while the life leaves his eyes."

Sam felt like Dean was reading his mind. That was exactly it. That was exactly how it felt...

And his brother knew because Dean had gone through the same thing, having watched Sam get stabbed in the back.

And it all clicked. He had gone through his own stages of grief after finding out about Dean's deal. It wasn't textbook Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, but he hit almost all the main points. He was angry with Dean, then combined denial and bargaining when trying to find a solution to their problem, and finally hit anger again along with depression after Dean was gone. Problem was, he had never completely accepted it. Therefore, he had never found solace.

And, with Dean back, all the mixed up feelings came right back out. With anger at the forefront. The nightmares and subsequent lack of sleep didn't help either. And the guilt he felt – about not finding a way out of the deal, not being able to save Dean, not being able to liberate him from Hell, and everything else that went along with the situation – manifested itself as even more outrage.

But when he thought Dean was putting Sam's feelings into words, only to realize that they were also Dean's feelings about Sam, it was like things finally made sense again. Sam had never understood why Dean had made that deal, but in the aftermath of Dean's death, Sam realized that he was willing to make the same deal... in fact, willing to simply trade places with him to save his brother from the anguish of Hell.

And, Sam realizes, they both must know how Dad felt and why he made his deal for Dean. They weren't thinking about the pain of the ones left behind, but all the life they still had to live, all the good that they would do.

It still hurt, but... yeah...

"Hey Dean," Sam said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Why do you think that Dad only... I mean, if you were pulled back, why..."

"You know Sam," Dean said with a heavy sigh, "I don't know why I got the get-out-of-jail with your old body card and Dad only got the day pass as a spirit. But, I'd like to think that he got to move on and found Mom. I don't know if I believe that... but I'd like to think it."

After a few more moments of silence, a good strong breeze reminded the brothers that they were sitting in a graveyard in the middle of the night in late December. The fire that Dean had apparently ignited while Sam napped was nearly out, leaving them cold and in the dark.

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" Sam suddenly asked.

"Dude," Dean said, looking a little disgusted, "given my warm reception by both you and Bobby when I came back top-side, I don't think that's funny at all."

"No," Sam said with a grin, "I guess not. Sorry." Sam waited for the constipated look to vanish from his brother's face before continuing. "It's just... we just had a heart-to-heart talk. Granted, in a cemetery near a freshly dug grave and a still-burning corpse, but a heart-to-heart none-the-less."

"Yeah, well," Dean said, getting up and picking his shovel up again to refill the grave, "don't get used to it."

Sam smiled at Dean's back, picked up the clean shovel, and began to up scoop the loose dirt in alongside his brother.

"So," he said, "you really got all of this done yourself while I... slept? I mean, Marissa Jakobson... did she make an appearance?"

"No," Dean said with obvious confusion, looking over his shoulder at Sam. "You did the research yourself, dude. She only haunts her grave on Saturdays. It's still Sunday... well, I guess technically it's Monday, and you said she only haunted the apartment complex an hour before and two hours after school."

"No, no, I know that. I just thought..." Sam trailed off, then had another thought. "Did Ruby help at least?"

"Ruby?"

"Yeah, did she... she was never here, was she?"

"Not that I saw," Dean said. He stuck his shovel into the ground and then turned to face Sam fully. "Are you sure you're OK?"

"Man, I should be asking you that Dean." Because, when asked personal questions, Winchesters evade like no other. "You did all this work yourself while I got to sleep."

"Yeah," Dean said, picking up his shovel once more to help with the last few scoops, "and don't think you don't owe me for that. Big time."

"Yeah, about that," Sam started, picking up his duffel along with Dean's as they started back towards the Impala. "I was thinking that maybe we could take a little break. Maybe, I don't know, go and visit with Bobby for a little while... I mean, today's the 22nd. It'll take a day to get to Bobby's place. So, really, we'll only be technically taking a couple of days off." He knew he didn't need to sell the idea to Dean, but he was hoping this way would lead to less questions.

"Really?" Dean asked, his eyes lighting up like... well, like a kid's at Christmas.

And the childlike smile that graced his older brother's face made Sam grin to himself. Dean kept up a steady stream of chatter about when to hit the road, how Bobby will be so surprised (and in a good way this time), what they should get for their friend who was a second father to them, what to get for Bobby's new pup Bowdern, and on and on until they reached the motel and Sam finally shoved him into the bathroom to get the first shower. By the time Sam was finished, Dean was fast asleep in his bed, a peaceful look on his face – the first Sam had noticed since his brother's return.

_And maybe_, Sam thought, _maybe he would be able to have a peaceful night as well_.


End file.
